Reflections on Hearing Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Sonata
in B Flat Minor (Opus 36) Performed by My Younger Son
On a Sunday Morning in West Hollywood
I
Romantic sonatas by Russians
Flaunt violent piano percussions—
Wreak digital mayhem
On fingers that play ‘em,
More fiercely than music by Prussians.
(7/14/09)
II
Rachmaninoff’s musical junctions
Form various magical unctions—
Faint pianissimo
To forté or brio
They soothe one’s auricular functions.
(7/16/09)
Lines overheard here and there
[“Find one that has no sickness”]
José (earnestly) announced to Harvey
“Find one that has no sickness.” But ‘one’ what
I wondered, and what ‘sickness’? Pale larvae,
Famished embryos of doubt, gnaw minds fraught
With hope, desire, and will contaminate
Even simple visions. Clearly, he’d lost
Something to sickness, fear. Perhaps a pet,
Done in by worms; more likely a star-crossed
Lover, whose wit, charm, generosity,
Lascivious flamboyance—not enough
To overcome that gnawing maw’s gritty
Terror—leaving only rough, hollowed stuff.
Harv, there is a remedy! Love-trollers
Must use bait repugnant to bi-polars.
(7/10/09)
Lines overheard here and there
[“My friend Diana was thinking about scattering her
mother’s ashes at the Loehman’s parking lot.”]
Not Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom’s, not even
Macy’s, charmed mother’s long, eventful reign.
There’s no joy, no hot orgasmic heaven,
When wealth asphyxiates true shoppers’ gain.
Most rich folks just don’t understand—they buy
What they want, imagine that purchased stuff
Is what it’s all about. They live and die
Buried under things, never know the rough
Eclat true shoppers earn, can’t see that things
Are not the object of the game. Sure, pride
Ensues from ownership—but owning flings
Depreciated joy. Mother’s wide-eyed,
Psychic exaltation’s not fired by things,
But by the satisfaction bargains bring—
It’s not so much the things that add life’s spice—
Proud pleasure’s source? The deep discounted price!
(7/7/09)
Lines overheard here and there
[“Where did you disappear to Art?”
“Oh, I was polishing the black pearl.”]
Quickly, I whipped out my tiny notebook—
Jotted the wholly curious exchange.
And, I confess, that “black pearl” set the hook—
Weird (from Artie), that image (passing strange!).
Unsurprisingly, my first thought flamed sex,
Imagining a moist, dark-eyed houri,
Writhing, arched mons veneris expectant,
Dewy, waiting to be polished—imbued
With lust. But, I thought, that’s not our puckish
Art, and asked—what does “polish” metaphor?
“Huh?” twitched eyebrow, “’polish’ just means ‘polish.’”
Then what the devil does “black pearl” implore?
“That would be my heart’s delight, my treasure,
My ‘black pearl!’” (eyes flashing like a laser)—
“Reconstructed fountain of such pleasure—
My ‘88, fresh-painted Chevy Blazer!”
(7/6/09)
I try to understand, I really do,
But mind will never cool the raging heart
Enflamed by spattered spray paint. What fiend fuels
The taggers’ need to vandalize? No art
Pretended here—just tags—rank escutcheons
Of wannabe nobility, pissing
Bestial turf marks, dank, defiant, brazen
Greed for recognition. Foul thugs, missing
The sentient dreams, the hope that floats most lives.
I hate a thief, but understand his need
To risk, to feed his family, survive.
But taggers only feed their egos’ greed.
They smudge dark scriptures (arrogant high priests),
Debase the world—gross, epidemic beasts.
or
Perhaps I’m missing something here—the glee
Engendered by the taggers’ furious ME!
or
[return, with your own closing heartfelt iambic pentameter couplet]
(6/23/09)
Sometimes you feel a pain
High in your right testicle.
Sitting in the vestibule,
Gamely anticipating
Your doctor’s fixed refrain,
You rehearse an answer:
I hope it’s not a cancer.
It doesn’t burn
It’s not a stab
It doesn’t make me moan—
It feels more like
A tenor’s voice
Than bass or baritone.
(6/22/09)
